The Chosen One
by Marguerite1
Summary: Scully and Mulder investigate an "alien intervention" that took place 50 years ago.


**The Chosen One**

Classification: X File   
Summary: Scully and Mulder are called upon to investigate an "alien intervention" from the 1940s.   


Dedicated with love to the memory of L.A., who survived and told his tale. 

*** 

Part One   
(Auschwitz concentration camp, December, 1943) 

Death flew on gray butterfly wings. 

It was bitterly cold. Steam rose from the mouths of the men as they shifted their gruesome burdens up from the carts and onto the conveyor belts. Don't look, don't think. Don't breathe. 

Not your mother, your sister, your daughter. Not your neighbor. Not your lover. Not your child. Not your wife. 

Merchandise. Stripped of the last vestiges of humanity: clothing to be distributed to the fortunate, gold fillings and wedding bands to be melted down, hair to adorn the heads of the chosen few, or to stuff mattresses. 

Avram Nowinski had been in the camp for less than twenty-four hours, but he already knew the 'rules.' 

Don't look, don't think. Don't breathe. 

He knew, but he did not obey. Even through the heavy haze of ash he caught the slightest glimpse of a remnant of scarlet hair. One of the older men saw Avram's hesitancy and put out a hand. "No." 

"Rivka..." 

"Don't do it. Don't look." 

He might as well have been told not to allow blood to course through his veins. Avram turned the body over. 

She had once been so beautiful, his Rivka. She was the brightest, most resourceful woman in their village. Even in the Warsaw ghetto she managed to find not only enough to eat but also enough to share with the elderly and infirm. In the face of the unthinkable, she had brought hope to the hopeless. 

Avram ran a hand along the sharp plane of her face. Her mouth was open and bloody, showing gaps where her gold-filled teeth had been extracted. There was a film of death over her eyes, but he still knew the blueness of her gaze. She was naked. Somewhere in the death spasms she had tried to protect what lay under the slight swell of her belly. 

He had looked, he had thought, and now he tried to breathe. The frigid air assaulted his lungs. He was about to scream, but one of his companions forced a hand over his mouth. 

Another man pulled him away from the corpse. "Sit for a minute, Avram. We'll hide you. Turn your face away from this." 

Suddenly Avram felt himself being pulled into another man's arms, his face pressed against the rough cloth of the uniform. Little by little he released his grip on Rivka's frozen hand until he held nothing but the bitter wind. His tears were acid against the raw, chapped skin of his face. He had never known such absolute, soul-wrenching pain until the moment he heard the metallic clang of the furnace door. 

The dark, greasy ash invaded his nostrils. He was inhaling her death. 

He vomited until his dinner of thin, watery soup was completely gone. Avram thrashed against the man who held him. Twisting violently, he broke free and began to run. 

"Come back!" one of his friends cried after him, nervously looking around for the inevitable SS guard. "Avram, don't do this--you have to try and stay alive!" 

"No!" In blind panic, he continued running until he was at the periphery of the compound. Wires were in front of him, the barbs grinning metallically at him. He knew, as all the inmates knew, that the fence was electrified. Touching it would bring sudden, certain death. 

Merciful death. 

Avram swiped at the tears that trickled down his cheek, shuddering in horror when his hand came up dark with moistened ash. 

"Why?" he demanded of the cold night sky whose very stars were obliterated by the floating butterflies of death. Less than a year ago he had been the most promising rabbinical student in his village, a "Bahur," a chosen man of study, betrothed to the most intelligent, beautiful woman he could imagine. 

Now he stood at the mouth of hell, teetering at the precipice with a rifle pointed at his head. He let his eyes travel up the muzzle to the cruel, impassive face of an SS commandant. 

In that instant, he decided that it was all over. His hand came away from his side as if of its own accord; his lips murmured the "Shema," the central prayer, the core of his being, the prayer of martyrs. 

He let his body fall forward to the fence... 

...and was restrained by a sudden, brilliant burst of light. 

***   
Part One   
(Washington, D.C., 1998) 

"Mulder, you're in my light." 

He backed away, still craning his neck toward the newspaper article Scully was reading. "Sorry." He let her continue uninterrupted for about twenty seconds, testing his weight on the ball of each foot in turn before pointing to one of the paragraphs. "Did you see that?" 

Scully moved his hand away with a grunt that somehow conveyed annoyance and kinship at the same time. "Not yet, but I want to--and I won't unless you get your hand out of my way." 

"Sorry," he repeated sheepishly. 

Less than a minute later Scully put the newspaper down and took her glasses off. "It's all very interesting, Mulder. I'm glad to see him brought to justice at last." She watched as Mulder acknowledged her words with a sharp nod. "What I don't understand is what it has to do with us. Was he connected in some way to Victor Klemper?" 

"Not that I'm aware of." 

Scully pinched the bridge of her nose and silently counted to ten. "Mulder, it's been a long day. I've read dozens of autopsy reports and my eyes are killing me. Either tell me what the connection is or I will not responsible for what happens next." 

"Okay, okay." He pointed to the photograph of the elderly man. "If this really is Johann Schuller, then he may have witnessed more than just the death camps." 

"He wasn't a passive witness. According to thousands of survivors, he was one of the most brutal, savage men in an institution unparalleled in its savagery. My grandfather fought in Europe during World War II; he helped liberate Auschwitz. If this really is Johann Schuller, then he's only getting his just desserts. Why are we even discussing this?" 

"Because, no matter what else he may have done, he witnessed an event." 

Scully got up from her chair. "Mulder, there's nothing I'd enjoy more than knowing that Johann Schuller was brought to justice and that I was partially responsible, but that's not what you're saying. What *are* you saying?" 

"He saw something, Scully. I think it was something alien." 

"An abduction? You think that an SS officer witnessed an alien abduction?" 

"Not an abduction. This time it was more of an...intervention." 

She sighed. "An intervention?" 

"I know it sounds crazy." He walked toward the door, retrieved her coat, and held it out to her. 

She felt as if he were handing her a parking ticket. "And we're going where?" 

"Not far this time. Just downtown, to the Holocaust museum." He put on his own coat as he continued talking. "We're meeting with a Dr. Jacob Nowinski in his office." 

"And he is?" 

"A noted Holocaust scholar. He's scheduled to testify against Schuller." 

"Because?" 

Mulder winced as he noticed the height of Scully's eyebrow. "He's the grandson of the--intervene." 

Scully's fatalistic groan could be heard above the rasping of the lock. 

*** 

Mulder inhaled, smiling to himself, as he walked with Scully down the corridors of the museum's offices. "Leather. Parchment. Gilt-edged bindings." 

"Bring back pleasant memories for you?" 

"Libraries, Scully. Books on every conceivable subject, preserved carefully in the hallowed libraries of Oxford. The most beautiful perfume imaginable." 

She chuckled at him. "Then prepare to go to fragrance heaven," she said as she opened the door to the central library. They walked together around the perimeter until they found a door with the name "Nowinski" on it. Scully bit back a remark about everyone having a name plate but her and let Mulder knock. 

"Come in." 

Mulder and Scully entered a small office filled with books and papers. There was a large mahogany desk off to one side; its crowning glory was an ancient black Royal typewriter. Standing behind the desk, his back to the agents, a dark-haired man was scanning the shelves against the wall. 

"I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder, and this is my partner, Special Agent Dana Scully. I believe you were expecting us." 

"Yes, of course. Forgive me." He set down a book and turned to face his guests. "I'm Jacob Nowinski--but you already know that." 

He was in his late twenties, thin, with the slightly stooped-over posture of a lifelong academic. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses his brown eyes were luminous. The hand he extended to be shaken was holding a pen, which suddenly snapped and covered his hand with ink. "I'm sorry," he said, looking directly at Scully as he withdrew his hand and wiped it on a tissue. "I must've been thinking about something else." 

"I understand completely." Scully took the offered seat while Mulder leaned comfortably against another bookshelf. "I'm sorry to take up your time, Dr. Nowinski; I know you have a lot of research to do before the extradition hearing." 

"I could use a break, actually. Though I must admit that I'm rather surprised that two F.B. I. agents are interested in this matter." 

"We're not exactly here about ascertaining whether or not this is Johann Sculler, or what his role may have been in the Nazi regime," Mulder said. 

"Then why, exactly, are you here?" 

Mulder shifted, uneasy about the scholarly scrutiny. "Our department at the F.B.I. concerns itself with unusual events." 

"One could call the Holocaust 'unusual,' Agent Mulder." 

"I mean 'unusual' in the sense of paranormal." 

Scully chose this moment to look into Nowinski's eyes, expecting to find humor there, if not outright ridicule. To her surprise, she found an expression of understanding directed at her partner. 

"Ah. You mean you'd like to hear the story of what happened to my grandfather." 

"I understand that he survived Auschwitz." 

"Yes, he did, Agent Scully. Although he came perilously close to losing his life that first night." 

"What happened?" Mulder inquired. 

"It was his intention to commit suicide. You've heard of 'going to the wires?'" They both nodded at him, their faces grim. "My grandfather had just put his wife's body into the crematory." 

"Was that your grandmother?" Scully asked gently. 

"No. My grandfather remarried after the war was over." He took a deep breath and continued. "He went to the edge of the camp with the intention of electrocuting himself on the fence or being shot by the guard, who was Johann Schuller. As he fell toward the wires, however, a strange event occurred. 

"There was a flash of light that came from nowhere, from the sky. It held my grandfather's body suspended in mid-air for several seconds, then placed him on the ground at the feet of the guard. Schuller jumped backwards, unable to believe what he'd seen, frightened half out of his wits. That's when he noticed something that hadn't been there when all this started." 

"What was that?" Scully and Mulder asked in unison, leaning forward. 

"A box." 

Scully frowned. "Wouldn't there have been boxes littered all over the camp?" 

"Not one like this." Nowinski took a key from his pocket and opened a glass case behind the desk. He produced a wooden crate and put it down on the desk. 

"What's so unusual about this box?" 

"In and of itself, Agent Mulder, not much. But you'll notice that there are no openings of any kind, no hinges, no sign of a lid. Just a plain box." 

Mulder looked at Scully, then back at Nowinski. "It's empty, I presume." 

"Completely. I've had it x-rayed. There's nothing inside. And before you ask, it's been analyzed and it does date back to the mid 1940's." 

"I still don't see the connection between this box," Scully said, gesturing toward the desk, "and the bright light that--stopped your grandfather's suicide." 

"Schuller was so taken aback that he fled the scene. My grandfather took the box back to his bunk and kept it there. I'm not sure why; perhaps he needed to be able to reassure himself that what had happened to him was, in fact, real. From that day on, the box was the thing that saved his life. 

"People were literally worked to death at Auschwitz. Heavy, taxing labor performed by men who weren't fed enough to keep their bodies alive. My grandfather felt that he'd been spared for a reason, that he was chosen to survive, and he decided to outwit the system. He carried that box all day long, from one place to another, looking as purposeful as he could. No one ever stopped to question him; they assumed that he was carrying something that someone wanted. 

"When the liberation forces came, my grandfather refused to let go of the box. The Allies finally gave in and let him take it with him. He even brought it to America. It never left his side." 

"Until the day he died," Mulder prompted. 

Nowinski's smile was sad. "Of course. It was passed down to my father, along with the story, and then to me." 

Scully inquired, "Did your grandfather live long enough to tell you the story himself?" 

"Actually, yes. I've heard his voice so many times that it feels as if he's still with me." 

Mulder looked into the sad eyes of the young historian. "Maybe he still is." 

*** 

Mulder and Scully prepared to leave Nowinski's office. Each was carrying a number of books, folders, and photographs. Unusually subdued, Mulder thanked their host for his time and assistance. 

"You're very welcome, Agent Mulder. I'm interested in doing anything I can to ensure that Schuller is brought to justice. It's just a shame that my testimony will be nothing more than hearsay." 

"But you have documented evidence, Dr. Nowinski." Mulder inclined his head toward the stack in his arms. "And I promise that we'll take very good care of it." 

"And thank you, again," Scully added. "We'll call if we have any questions." She was a bit disconcerted to find Nowinski's eyes to be damp behind his glasses. "Are you all right?" she asked in concern. 

"I'm fine," he assured her, his face becoming puzzled as he saw the agents exchange glances. "Have I said something funny?" 

"It's a running joke. Kind of a--family thing," Mulder said as he chuckled. "I'm sorry. We'll be on our way." 

"It's been a great relief to talk to someone about this. I write and write, but the chance to tell my grandfather's story to flesh-and-blood human beings, that's rare." He opened the door for his visitors and ushered them into the main library. "I hope to see you again soon." 

Mulder's skin tingled and he looked over his shoulder. The words, ostensibly spoken to them both, were being addressed to Scully. 

She, in turn, was looking up at Nowinski's dark, brooding eyes, the corners of her mouth turned down in confusion. "We'll--we'll be in touch." She took a couple of long strides and started down the row of study tables. 

Out of her peripheral vision she could see Mulder's smirk. "What?" 

"Nothing.'" He pressed the button for the elevator, which arrived almost immediately. They both got in, turning a quarter of a turn toward one another. Mulder still wore an insufferable grin. 

"Out with it," Scully sighed. 

"I think you made quite an impression on him," Mulder remarked. 

"You're reading something into it that isn't really there." 

"Oh? Do men usually react like that when they see you? Did Dana Scully leave a string of broken pens behind her in medical school?" 

"We took him by surprise, Mulder, that's all." 

There was silence except for a muffled snort of amusement. Scully shot Mulder a glare. 

"Whatever," Mulder said affably. 

Scully sighed and waited impatiently for the door to open. 

In his office, Jacob Nowinski sat at his desk, staring into the middle distance with cloudy eyes. 

***   
End of part one   
*** 

The Chosen One (2/4) 

See Part 1 for disclaimers and information 

Missing parts? I'll be happy to forward them to you.   
marguerite@swbell.net> 

***   
Part two   
***   
It was well into the early hours of Saturday morning when Scully finally stood up and stretched, wincing as the bones in her neck popped. From the chair in the corner she heard the sound of Mulder closing yet another book. For a fleeting instant she was annoyed that he read an entire book for every three chapters she finished, but the idea of actually retaining all that information--the gruesome stories, the hideous photographs--made her shudder. 

"I'm making some tea. Want any?" 

He made a gesture that seemed affirmative. Scully padded into her kitchen and started a fresh kettle of water. "Mulder, I have to tell you that if this really is Schuller, he can't possibly get what he really deserves." 

There was no answer. 

Frowning, Scully turned off the stove, went back into the living room, and found Mulder sitting at the little desk with his head down on his arms. 

How could he sleep after seeing... 

His shoulders moved slightly. 

Scully crept closer. She heard soft, ragged breathing, like stifled sobs. 

"Mulder?" Gingerly she put a hand on his back, soothing the skin at the back of his neck. "Mulder, if this is too much for one night, let's just stop, okay?" 

"I'm all right," was the muffled answer. 

Unconvinced, she stood beside him and reached for his hand. He pulled away abruptly, forcing his features into an expressionless mask. "Mulder, what's the matter?" 

"I'm tired, Scully. And all of this..." he indicated the scattered photographs and documents, "...it just makes me sick." 

She was waiting for something else, but Mulder was silent. "What about some tea to calm your stomach a little?" 

"No thanks, Scully. I'd better head back home." He caught himself in a yawn and gave her a guilty look as she smiled at him. "Sorry." 

"You're wiped out, Mulder. Stay here." 

"I don't want to be any trouble." 

They both knew what she was thinking, that he was nothing but trouble, but neither one said anything. Scully smiled and ruffled his hair as she led him over to the sofa. "You know where everything is, don't you? And don't be afraid to eat something if you get hungry. Good night, Mulder." 

"Night, Scully." 

She went into her bedroom and shut the door, puzzled. 

Mulder usually did not allow himself to be moved by the paranormal cases the way he had been during his stint with the violent crimes unit. Once in a great while, though, something would touch him so close to home that it would insinuate itself through the thick wall of self-defense that he'd built. Scully stopped to ponder the cause of his latest outburst, but she was exhausted. 

She went into the bathroom and let hot water run into the tub, adding fragrant oils. So many autopsy reports and facts about death had been in her hands that she just wanted to wash them all away. 

"Lady Macbeth," she said to her reflection in the mirror. 

All the layers of her clothing were shed and she sank into the bathtub with a grateful sigh. This was bliss, lying in soothing warm water and listening to the silence of the night. And also... 

"Scully?" 

With what was almost a whimper, Scully got up from the tub and called to him in the living room. "This had better be phenomenally important. Don't come in here; I'm not decent." 

There was no remark, no innuendo. 

"Mulder didn't make a sex joke: film at 11," Scully muttered to herself as a warning that this was not a good sign. Worried, she got into her robe as quickly as she could and walked quickly back into the living room. Mulder was sitting on the sofa, his folded hands resting on his knees. He was as pale and silent as marble. 

Scully shivered and pulled the robe tighter around herself. "Mulder? What's wrong?" 

He couldn't meet her gaze as he cleared his throat. His voice was raw. "There's something I have to tell you, Scully. About why this case bothers me so much." 

"Okay." From his body language she sensed that he didn't want her to sit close to him, so she took a seat in the chair opposite him and waited. 

"You know that I have a phobia about fire." 

"You said your best friend's house burned down, that you spent the night with him in the rubble. It's understandable, Mulder." 

"The house burned down under mysterious circumstances." He frowned, trying to find a good place to start. "My friend's name was Michael. His family was a little controversial on the Vineyard. His grandfather was a Holocaust survivor. They were Jewish." 

"Judaism was controversial?" Scully was puzzled. 

"That part of Massachusetts was...restricted." 

Scully's throat caught at the notion. Ethnic hatred was repellent to her. "You think someone touched their house to get them to move away?" 

"They'd been the targets of a lot of attacks before. Michael got the worst of it; he was ten and small for his age anyway. By the time we got to the showers in Gym class, he was really in for it." He saw Scully's brow crease in a silent question. "He was circumcised." 

"Almost all baby boys were at that time. Did they pick on you, too, Mulder? You're circumcised." 

His head snapped up and he made a choking sound. 

"Dead Horse, Alaska, in the tub of warm water. Driving cross-country after I shot you. The motel shower in Providence." Scully ticked off on her fingers the number of times she had seen him naked and tried not to smile. "My interest was purely professional, you understand." 

"Of course." He was, to Scully's surprise, blushing. 

There was a moment of tense silence. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, Mulder." 

"No, it's okay." He waved his hand dismissively in front of his face, fanning himself in the process. "But I did get picked on, Scully." 

"Picked on? Or beaten up?" 

His laugh was dry and mirthless. "You do know how to hurt a guy, Scully. Yeah, we both got beaten up, and on a fairly regular basis. The bigger kids said I deserved it, that I only stood up for Michael because I was Jewish, too." 

Scully's forehead puckered. "You know, I never really thought about it before. Are you?" 

"No, but they thought I was. My nose was broken when I was about five, and it grew--well, it grew faster than the rest of me, and I never quite caught up. It gave them something 'extra' to pick on. And as if the ethnic face, good grades, and absent father weren't enough, I had to have The Incredible Disappearing Sister, too." 

"Oh, Mulder," Scully murmured. Peripatetic as her Navy childhood had been, she had never doubted that she was loved. 

Mulder pulled away from Scully's attempted caress. "I'm not telling you this to get your pity," he said. "I just wanted you to know why I was acting so strangely a little while ago." 

She switched from compassion to detachment. "It's a difficult subject for many people, even those without any personal knowledge. You don't have anything to apologize for." 

He nodded, the motion slow and sleepy. "I'm sorry I interrupted your bath." 

"Don't make a habit of it." She gave him a playful shove; he pretended to fall back in pain, then lay on the sofa with his head pillowed on his arms. "Will you be okay, Mulder?" 

"Fine. Really." 

"Good." She went back into her bedroom once more, but this time she left the door open just a bit so as to hear him if he called out to her. It was a long time before she fell asleep. 

*** 

Auschwitz Concentration Camp   
March, 1944 

Avram knew the daily routine. He leapt out of bed, pushing in front of the other men of his cabin to get to the front of the food line, where the soup might actually contain a bit of meat and he could grab a scrap of bread that didn't have too many maggots in it. 

Then he slipped through behind the latrine and pulled away layers of discarded construction materials until he found his treasure. 

His box. 

The light but functional box, the mysterious piece of unidentifiable wood that had no seams and no openings. 

The box that looked like a heavy burden, which he carried with a show of hard labor, but which let him expend a minimum amount of energy to keep from burning away the small amount of food that was given to prisoners in this hellhole. That was how most men died, once they passed the initial "selection." They were simply worked to death. 

He would stay alive. 

He didn't understand quite how he knew, but from the moment he had been gently pulled back to safety by the beam of light, he realized that he was destined to survive. He had been chosen. 

Once again, he had been chosen. 

"You! Nowinski!" 

Avram turned around. He was being scrutinized by the guard who had tried to shoot him that night at the fence. Schuller was his name, a name feared by every inmate. 

"Sir?" 

"Come with me." 

Avram moved toward the man, his box still carried lovingly in his arms. He knew better than to ask any questions. Perhaps he would be given a task for the day other than his bogus "construction work." He had enough strength stored up to survive a day or two of the type of labor that was killing his bunkmates. 

They stopped at the door to the prison camp infirmary. It was a place where people went to die, not to heal. Schuller took a piece of paper from the guard at the door and put a check mark next to Avram's name. "Go in there," he commanded. Avram started to go into the door, but Schuller stopped him. "Give me that," he insisted, pointing to the box. 

"Sir, it's my job to..." 

"You've had that thing ever since...I want to know what's in it." 

"I have to keep it with me..." 

"I said give it to me!" Schuller used his fist to knock the smaller man to the ground, then picked up the box and carried it away. 

Avram Nowinski was led into the infirmary for reasons unknown. 

*** 

Baltimore, Maryland   
1998 

It was a scream. 

No, it was the phone. Phone. Reach for the phone. 

"Hello?" 

"Dr. Scully?" 

She sat up in bed, fumbling for the lamp. "Yes. This is Dana Scully." 

"This is Jacob Nowinski. Did I wake you?" 

"No. No, I'm up." She peered at the clock and saw that it was eight-fifteen. "What can I do for you?" 

"I was wondering if you've seen the news today." 

"No, not yet. What's going on?" 

"The extradition hearings start next Wednesday in Federal court." 

"Then you'll be testifying." 

"Yes, on Friday afternoon, if all goes as scheduled. I'm trying to get an interview with Schuller scheduled; would you and Agent Mulder like to sit in on it?" 

"We'd be very interested, thank you. When?" 

"The interview with Schuller--if it happens--will be late tomorrow afternoon." 

"Keep us informed, please. In case you need to see us, I'll leave a pass for you at the main entrance to F.B.I. headquarters." 

"Thank you. Goodbye, Dr. Scully." 

"Goodbye." She put the phone back in the cradle and shook the hair out of her eyes. After a moment of listening intently, she realized that she was alone in the apartment. Once more she picked up the phone, dialing Mulder's home number without having to look at her finger. 

"Mulder." 

"Thanks for the ditch. I needed the extra sleep." 

"You were in your own home, Scully, and I went to mine. That doesn't count as a ditch." 

She had to smile. "We'll call it half of one, then. Listen, I just heard from Jacob Nowinski. They're starting the hearings on Wednesday, but he's trying to get an interview with Schuller tomorrow afternoon." 

"That just gives us a day to sift through the information until we find Schuller's story about the abductions." 

"Mulder, wait. Just listen for a minute." Scully took a deep breath and steeled herself for an argument. "We're not going to get this man put away by saying that he saw aliens." 

"That's tangential, Scully. Our help isn't needed to get him extradited. Nowinski's a pro; he's a third-generation Nazi hunter with an incredible string of successes. I just want to know, that's all. I need to know what he saw." 

"We have hundreds of witness accounts..." 

"But not to anything like this. Not to an event that saved a person's life. Come on, Scully, you've got to admit that this case is unique in that regard." 

It was a good point. 

"Okay, I'm interested. We'll get a call if the interview is approved. And either way, I'd like to be there for the hearings. And I'll be at the office in an hour--meet me and we'll finish up the research." 

"Good idea. Bye." 

"Bye." She hung up the phone and sat very still, pondering what Mulder had said. It was true that she had never heard of anything positive coming from contact with aliens. 

If there were aliens. 

Right. 

Without realizing it, she fingered the tiny scar at the back of her neck. 

*** 

After several hours they had managed to pull out all of the relevant articles. Mulder read them with a combination of satisfaction and revulsion. 

"This is what he told the SS officer in charge. 'I was not going to give the prisoner the satisfaction of an easy death. My gun was at the ready; I was going to shoot the Jew bastard in the stomach and let him die slowly.'" 

"Oh, God." 

"I know. Makes me want to meet this man just so I can hate him in person. Anyway, he goes on. 'Just as I was about to fire, a bright light came into my eyes. I did not have the opportunity to fire.'" 

"Mulder, all that tells us is that he lost his shot. It could've been a beam from a watch tower. There's nothing there..." 

"Well, he wasn't too likely to come out and tell a superior officer that he'd witnessed an inexplicable event, was he?" Mulder wheeled his chair closer to Scully and looked her squarely in the face. "But now he has nothing to lose. Maybe he'll tell me." 

She sighed. "Maybe." 

"What're you reading?" 

"These are medical logs, giving dates of experiments and the results. X-rays, surgeries, poisonings, all kinds of horrible things." 

"Why are you reading them?" 

"I want to see if Schuller's name comes up under any of these categories. He wasn't a doctor, but he might well have been a witness." She continued her perusal in silence and Mulder returned to his own computer, typing his commentary on Schuller's words. 

Scully's harsh intake of breath penetrated the quiet room. "Oh, my God." 

"What?" He was on his feet instantly. "What did you find?" 

"This doesn't make any sense, Mulder." She pointed her finger at a series of columns. "These people on this list were men whose testicles were exposed to high doses of radiation. Look at this one. 'Avram Nowinski.' Jacob's grandfather was rendered sterile?" 

"Maybe the radioactivity didn't completely..." He found himself uncomfortable with the terminology and wiped his glasses as a stalling technique. 

"That would be possible, Mulder, except for these follow-up records. Here." She pointed to the column she had been reading, translating from the German as Mulder listened in rapt fascination. "Irradiation treatment complete. Cancer has become obvious in both testicles. Surgery performed April 20, 1944, bilaterally. Subject has been released to work detail." 

Scully took a long look at Mulder's horrified expression. "Mulder, this is crazy. Avram Nowinski was surgically castrated. His pregnant wife had been sent to the gas chamber the first day of her incarceration, and he had no access to women in the prison camp." 

They were concentrating on the problem so intently that they did not notice the subject of their enquiry as he entered the office. 

"So we have to ask ourselves..." 

"...who the hell is Jacob Nowinski?"   


***   
End of part two 

feedback is adored at marguerite@swbell.net> 

*** 

The Chosen One (3/4) 

See part 1 for disclaimers and information 

Missing parts? I'd be happy to send them to you.   
marguerite@swbell.net>   


***   
part 3   
*** 

They were concentrating on the problem so intently that they did not notice the subject of their enquiry as he entered the office. 

"So we have to ask ourselves..." 

"...who the hell is Jacob Nowinski?"> 

Mulder was the first to see the figure in the doorway. "Dr. Nowinski, do come in. We were just thinking about you." 

There was humor in his voice as he replied. "Yes, I'm certain you were. I came to tell you that the meeting with Schuller is scheduled for three o'clock tomorrow afternoon." The dark eyes were unutterably sad, yet clear and fearless. "I had a feeling that this might happen." He took the offered chair, forming the third point of the triangle of Mulder, Scully, and himself. "You've delved into the medical records." 

"Yes, and I'm rather perplexed. Forgive me for being so indelicate, but I have to wonder about something--as a doctor as much as an F.B.I. agent--what relation are you to Avram Nowinski? 

He avoided her eyes and her question. "I was told that you would settle for nothing less than the entire truth. I knew I was taking a chance in giving you those files." His eyes lit on Mulder, turned to Scully, then rested on Mulder once more. "But it was a chance I had to take. You are the only ones who will listen." He settled into his chair, pulling on the cuffs of his jacket. "Someone must listen to me." 

Mulder leaned forward, his hands folded over his knees. "We're listening." 

"You have the medical records in your hands; you know what kind of 'treatment' my grandfather received at the hands of the Nazi doctors." 

"We also know," Scully said in a professionally distant tone, "that his wife was killed, that he had no access to women at Auschwitz, and that the time lapse between the surgery and his release was long enough to make fathering children completely impossible." 

"After the war, he married an Austrian woman, a fellow detainee named Sarah. She knew about what had happened to him. She was a kind person, an exceptional woman. She went into the marriage knowing what the...limitations...would be. But she thought he deserved some happiness after all of the misery he had endured." He paused, removing his glasses and rubbing at his eyes as he prepared to continue his narrative. "He was taken against his will, had experiments performed on him, and was purposely given cancer in order to sterilize him." 

Suddenly, Mulder was achingly aware of a catch in Scully's breathing, so faint that only he could hear it: a bat's squeak of private suffering. "That must have been unbearable," she said. 

Cool silence fell into the room. 

Mulder had to clear his throat before he spoke. "So your father was adopted." 

The answer was slow and measured. "You could say that he was, in a manner of speaking." 

Scully raised an eyebrow. "In a manner of speaking?" 

Nowinski sighed, his eyes lowered. "Avram Nowinski's life was changed forever the night he found that box. It kept him alive when everyone around him was dying. It was his protector in the camp, and afterward." 

"I don't understand," Mulder murmured. "What are you trying to tell us?" 

"The box was taken from him shortly before the first irradiation procedure. It was returned unharmed the day he went back to his barracks after the surgery. He kept it with him. You have to understand--what I'm telling you is something you could never have dreamed of." 

Scully looked at Mulder. "That would be unlikely," she stated. 

"He married Sarah and they lived happily together for seventeen years, until she died of a massive heart attack. But he didn't look a day older than he had when they'd met. He never suffered an injury that was not healed immediately, and he never became ill. It was because of the box." 

The reaction was immediate. Scully dropped her head, studying the backs of her hands. Mulder pushed his chair backwards and forced his face into a noncommittal mask while his mind whirled furiously. "You're saying that this box was a fountain of youth?" 

"I know that this sounds completely implausible." 

"Dr. Nowinski, I have a reputation for believing the implausible. But there's a hole in your story that I can't ignore." He rubbed the sides of his jaw for a few moments, looking away from Scully. "Your father was adopted?" 

"He was not Avram Nowinski's natural son, if that's what you mean to ask." 

"Because of the surgery," Scully put in gently. 

"Because my grandfather was castrated, yes." 

Mulder leaned forward. "What about the box? If he never aged, never got sick, why didn't the box restore him?" 

"He wasn't in possession of the box at the time of the surgery." 

"And afterward?" 

The dark head shook and Nowinski wearily pushed his glasses up on his nose. "I've never been able to explain that. Perhaps it can only cure what happens in its presence." 

"Then what about your grandmother's heart attack? Your grandfather had the box at the time. Why didn't it work?" 

"It has never worked for anyone but its original owner." Agitated, Nowinski looked Mulder straight in the eye. "I'd like to remind you that you were the one who came to me with the idea of an alien intervention in the first place: a notion which, frankly, I do not believe But I was still courteous enough to give you the results of a lifetime of study." 

"You don't find any evidence of the paranormal in what happened that night?" 

"Paranormal, absolutely. Alien...that is what I do not believe." 

Scully lifted her face. "What do you think happened that night, Dr. Nowinski?" 

He searched her face, drawing strength from her compassion. "I believe that Avram Nowinski was chosen by God to survive and tell the world what happened in the death camps." 

Mulder took in a sharp breath, looking at Scully to gage her reaction. Her face was pale but deliberately neutral. 

"Excuse me for a moment." Scully rose and went to the computer, typing quickly. The staccato beat of her fingers on the keys was the only sound in the room for several minutes. 

Mulder, needing time to think, got up and poured cups for coffee for Nowinski and himself. He handed the styrofoam container to his guest and perched on the edge of the desk. His eyes glittered with confusion. 

"You don't believe me," Nowinski said, his statement seeming redundant given the dubious gaze of the man opposite him. 

"I believe that your grandfather is still alive; there are still survivors living. I don't believe that he's twenty-seven years old." 

"Agent Mulder, I thought that you, of all people, would keep a more open mind." Nowinski's expression was reproachful. "A man who believes that his sister was abducted by aliens hardly has room to throw stones at a man who believes that an act of God provided someone with an unusual life span." 

The men regarded each other in silence. Finally, Nowinski spoke again. "What bothers you is not the idea of an intervention--but that it might have come from God. That's what you resist. Agent Mulder, you *want* this to be alien in nature, don't you?" 

Mulder was stunned. He let out a deep sigh. "Until I heard your grandfather's story, I had seen no evidence that aliens have done anything other than test humans, or kill them outright. I'd never seen a single case that even remotely suggests an interest in preserving human life for anything other than genetic experimentation." He felt Scully wince from across the room. 

"What do you suppose the Nazis were doing?" Nowinski asked, a trace of bitterness in his voice. 

A shudder went through Mulder's body at the recollection of Victor Klemper's rationalization for the murder of so many innocent people: the advancement of science. "It's not the first time I've thought of this parallel." 

Nowinski's voice shook. "You could not reconcile yourself to the idea of living beings doing such dreadful things to other living beings." 

"I spent the first part of my F.B.I. career as a criminal profiler. I know exactly what living beings can do to other living beings." His face softened. "That's what fascinated me about this story; it left open the possibility that someone, somewhere was trying to do something good." 

Nowinski gestured to the poster on the wall. "We all want to believe that." 

"Then we'll set aside the difference between your opinion and mine about what may have happened. However, even if--and it's a big if--I were to believe your story about the mysterious box, it still doesn't answer the fundamental question. Where is Avram Nowinski now?" 

Scully stopped typing. 

"I think you know the answer, Agent Mulder." 

Three souls waited in that dimly-lit room. 

"I am Avram Nowinski." 

*** 

Auschwitz Concentration Camp   
January, 1945 

He looked out into the distance. 

Somehow he had survived the ruthless butchery that passed for medical treatment. So certain was he that it was his destiny to live through this impossible hell that he endured the pain and degradation. 

He remembered. 

The day he was sent back to the barracks would forever be seared into his mind. Aching and humiliated, he acknowledged the awkwardly nurturing gestures of his fellow prisoners as they tried to help him perform his tasks. But he was without the box and had to perform heavy physical labor. The crude sutures popped open and the wounds oozed a foul-smelling fluid. 

A man named Max took care of him, shielding him from the eagle-eyed guards who would gleefully shoot any prisoner not doing the work of three. At dusk there were five fewer members of their work detail, and Max took Avram back to the barracks to rest. 

The most dreaded sound of all came as night wrapped its cold arms around the hungry, exhausted men: the boots of an SS officer. 

"Schuller," came the agitated whispers. Rising with a supreme effort, the forty-four men of Barracks 17 stood at attention. 

Schuller entered and looked coldly at each man. In his arms was Avram's box. 

It flew through the air and landed loudly, mere inches away from Avram's toes. He started, then looked up into the face of the man who had once pointed a rifle at his stomach. 

"Take it, Jew bastard. Take it." 

He spun on his heels and left. 

That had been eight months ago. 

Suddenly Avram was shaken out of his reverie. The silent evening broke into unrestrained pandemonium. The men in the barracks were screaming wildly, running outside in all directions, certain that they had been chosen for "special treatment." 

The gas chambers. 

Avram was exhausted. He had been forced to abandon the use of his box in order to dig the giant holes that would hold the corpses. There wasn't time to burn them all, and the SS were insistent that there be no traces left of the innumerable dead. With the strength he had been able to save through his light exertions, he was able to do his share of work and escape the beatings and shootings that cracked through the silent winter days. 

Of the seventy-six men of his village who had been taken to the death camp, he was the only survivor. 

A sudden silence descended upon the group when the marching feet came close enough for identification to be possible. 

"God in heaven," someone murmured. 

"Don't be afraid. We're here to help you. We're Americans." 

Bleary eyes set deeply in skeletal faces gazed at the clean-cut faces of their liberators. 

Their liberators wept. 

Later that night Avram made his way through the crowd, clutching his box. The prisoners were being loaded onto trucks for transport to more humane housing. 

By the loading area, frantically writing down the names of the wraiths, was a technical sergeant named Joseph Roseman. He'd been picked up from his post in Norway in the dead of night because he was known to speak Hebrew and Yiddish. He'd had no idea of what lay ahead. 

For the entire day he had been talking to these living skeletons. "Where were you from? How long have you been here? Do you know of any family living outside of the camps?" 

Their questions were uniform. "Can you help me find my son, my sister, my wife, my father..." 

"Can you tell me what happened to my daughter? She was in Birkenau." 

"Is my brother still alive?" 

They wanted to go home. Roseman didn't have the heart to tell them that there were no longer any homes for them. He had his men distribute broth and medicines to the wretched inmates while he went about his grim task. 

"We will have an agency contact you about your family, Mr. Eisen." 

He had no words with which to describe what he was seeing. 

He was twenty-two years old. 

There was a little disturbance at the back of the fourth truck. Roseman turned wearily. "What's going on over there?" 

"This man has something with him--some sort of box. It's too big; it'll take up the place of another person." 

Roseman sighed heavily. "Give me a minute," he said to the private who was assisting him. He addressed Avram in Yiddish. "What is that?" 

"It's mine." 

Mine. A concept so foreign to these people. There went Joseph Roseman, but for the grace of God. His heart felt too large and heavy for his chest. 

"What is it?" 

Avram's eyes pleaded with the American officer. "It saved my life," he said softly. 

A young man's voice broke the stillness of the winter evening. "Hey, Sarge--we need to get moving before it starts to snow again!" 

"What is your name?" 

"Avram Nowinski." 

Roseman scanned his roster and found the medical data next to Avram's name. He swallowed hard and looked from his baby-faced driver to the haunted shadow before him. "Let him take the box, Stevenson. Pikuach nefesh." 

Avram smiled, but the private was confused. "Sir?" 

In heavily-accented English, Avram translated. "Saving of life. To save a life is more important than to follow a rule." To Roseman, he added, "I will never forget you." 

He took his place in the truck, with the box cradled like a lover in his arms. 

*** 

Washington, D.C.   
1998 

"Scully, may I have a word with you in private?" 

Mulder ushered her out of the office, his hand lightly touching her back. 

"Did you find anything?" 

"No death certificate for Avram Nowinski. No records at all of Isaac Nowinski, except for a marriage to one Helen Steinberg in 1967--and that was religious, not civil. No vital statistics whatsoever for Jacob Nowinski." 

"You believe him, don't you, Scully?" 

"Yes," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "I believe him." 

Mulder buried his face in his hands for a moment, breathing quietly and collecting his thoughts. "Have you ever heard of 'survivor guilt?'" 

She sighed. "I was waiting for that." 

"There are some people who become so immersed in what they're studying historically--the Holocaust, the treatment of the Native Americans, slavery--that they start to take on the burdens of the people whose lives have affected them so strongly." 

"So you're suggesting that Jacob Nowinski is delusional?" 

"You're suggesting that he's really seventy-six years old. Who's got the more plausible theory, here?" 

"Since when is plausibility a factor in your examination of a case?" 

A small sound escaped his throat, halfway between a sigh and a groan. His fingers wrapped around her wrist in a loose hold. "Since you let your fears about the absence of divine intervention cloud your judgment." 

Scully started to pull away from the fingers that smoothed her hand, but changed her mind and remained still, letting Mulder continue. 

"I understand completely why you want to run with this notion. I do, too." He nodded at her with a small smile. "You know how much I'd give for the chance to bring one of those vermin to a court of law." 

"Or just to get a good, clean shot at one," Scully said, reminded of the case in Brooklyn and the horrible anti-Semitic crime that had been committed. 

"Even so, Scully, you can't think..." 

"Mulder, there's no other logical explanation." 

"You think that there was an alien intervention?" 

There was a pause. The face she lifted to him was calm and serene. "I believe that the hand of God was present." 

The silence was overwhelming. Neither agent was willing to look away first. 

"Mulder, I can't tell you exactly why I believe him, but I don't have any other choice. I looked him up just now; he simply doesn't exist as Jacob Nowinski. There is no shred of documentary evidence for anything in his life. His knowledge of detail is phenomenal, far beyond anecdotal. There's a trace of a European accent in someone who's supposedly American-born, and there's something...something *old* about him." She waved her hand in the air as if tracing a celestial sphere in its orbit. "I believe absolutely in an all-mighty and powerful God. But I've never been able to reconcile the horrors of the Holocaust with that faith. Wait, hear me out--what if there had been a purpose in saving one person to be a witness?" She put her hand on his arm and held him fast. "Whether or not you believe his story, whether he's Avram Nowinski or a brilliant but tortured researcher, he is still a witness." 

Mulder slumped against the wall. "This man has to testify in front of an extradition committee. No one is going to believe that this man in his twenties is a concentration camp survivor." 

"That's why he gives scholarly testimony. He's considered an archivist, not a material witness." 

"And what happens when a defense lawyer goes hunting around for his credentials, Scully? How credible will he be without a paper trail? No matter what he knows, he'll be dismissed as a fraud." 

"You have a better idea?" 

"Yes. Yes, I do." He stood up, stretched, and paced back and forth across the room. "We know that Schuller saw this event, whatever it was. And something must have happened to scare him into returning the box. SS officers don't scare easily." 

"And?" 

"We go in without our mystery man, ask a few questions about what Schuller saw, let him tell us his story--along with the usual line that he was in the camps but not in charge of anything. Then we bring in Nowinski to ask him the question that's been haunting him for fifty-three years." 

As always, Scully finished his thought. "Why was the box returned?" 

"My guess is that he'll be so rattled that a confession just might slip out." 

"An educated guess, Mulder?" 

"I hope so. It may be our only option." He opened the door for and beckoned Nowinski to join them. "We'll meet you at the Federal Building tomorrow at two." 

"That's very kind of you, Agent Mulder, since you still think I'm a madman." 

His mouth quirked upward. "I have some experience on your side of that equation, after all." 

Scully's voice was silent, but her eyes spoke eloquently of her belief. 

"Agent Mulder." Nowinski put his hand on Mulder's arm and met his eyes unflinchingly. "Why can't you believe?" 

His voice was husky with emotion. "Because I don't understand. Why save only one? Why just Avram Nowinski, and not his whole village? Why not the six million?" 

"That's not for us to know," Scully said quietly. 

Nowinski's impossibly expressive eyes filled with tears as he spoke. "Agent Scully is right, you know. Whether it was 'alien' or not it was, one way or another, an act of God." 

They walked together toward the elevator and Scully pressed the call button. Mulder paused for a moment. "There's something I want to look at before I go. I'll see you both tomorrow." 

Scully frowned slightly, but could not imagine an ulterior motive for Mulder's sudden burst of work-related enthusiasm. She stepped into the elevator in front of the scholar, who suddenly seemed so very old and tired. 

Mulder watched as the doors closed, then went back into the office. He typed in the name which had so suddenly intrigued him, the one link to the truth. 

Helen Steinberg Nowinski. 

***   
end of part 3 

***   
Feedback is lovingly saved and answered at   
marguerite@swbell.net>   


The Chosen One (4/4) 

Summary and disclaimer may be found in part 1 

***   
part 4 

*** 

He did not have the look of a murderer. 

Johann Schuller was seated in the interrogation room, flanked by his attorney and two guards. He was neatly attired in a charcoal business suit and maroon tie, his white hair combed and freshly cut. His lined face was almost unnaturally serene. 

He rose when Scully entered the room. There was no pretentiousness about the gesture; it was simply a natural outcome of his European upbringing. 

Scully was not impressed. She took a seat next to Mulder. 

The attorney spoke first. "My name is Steven Masters. I want it made clear that my client is speaking to you to clarify historical issues at your request and that nothing he may say will have any bearing on the extradition hearings this week. My client will speak with the two of you, and then your 'expert witness,' who has been asked to wait outside for this portion of the meeting." 

"We understand, Mr. Masters, and we thank you for allowing us this interview. My name is Fox Mulder, and this is Dana Scully. We're with the F.B.I., but this is not a criminal investigation." 

Schuller directed his answer to Mulder, as Scully's eyes were cold and unreadable. "I will be happy to assist you," he assured him in lightly accented English. "I have so many unpleasant things occupying my mind." 

Mulder had to keep reminding himself that this cultured, genteel man was a mass murderer. "I'm sure you do. What I'd like to ask you about has nothing to do directly with your...activities as a member of the Third Reich." 

"I was a young man in a military situation. I was following orders." 

Scully wanted to scream, but composed herself by folding her hands tightly in her lap. "We want to ask you about a specific incident at Auschwitz, Mr. Schuller." 

He barked a laugh. 

Scully's mouth twitched in ill-concealed disgust. "This is not a laughing matter." 

"I'm sorry, young lady, but you have no idea how amusing it is to be told that your line of questioning is unrelated to the false charges leveled against me, only to have you inquire about Auschwitz. I was there because I was assigned to be there. I did nothing wrong." 

With a gesture that managed to convey politeness and contempt simultaneously, Mulder pushed his chair away from the table as he looked into the cool blue eyes of the elderly man. "We want to ask you about a specific incident that took place in December of 1943." 

"That was fifty-five years ago, Mr. Mulder. Surely you don't..." 

"This would be rather an unforgettable event. It involved the attempted suicide, in your very presence, of one of the inmates." 

For the first time, Schuller's face registered consternation, though he suppressed it quickly. 

Masters spoke up. "My client is unable to speak about the fate of any particular person who was confined in that facility." 

"Facility?" Scully questioned under her breath. 

"This does not address his death, Mr. Masters, so I think we may safely proceed. There was a night in December of that year when an inmate named Avram Nowinski walked to the periphery of the camp with the intention of throwing his body onto the electrified fence." 

"That happened occasionally, Mr. Mulder. Conditions were, admittedly, not what they should have been. Some people were unable to cope with the difficulties of their surroundings..." 

"Be that as it may," Mulder interrupted, "this particular man was halfway to the wire when something happened. Do you recall any event out of the ordinary in this regard?" 

Schuller stopped and whispered something in German to his attorney. The younger man was startled. He shrugged his acquiescence. 

"There was a night where something unusual happened. A man was, as you say, contemplating suicide. I went to pull him back from the wire." 

"Wait, wait." Mulder pushed his chair back up to the table, eying Schuller with absolute incredulity. "You attempted to save his life?" 

"I was only able to help when prisoners were out of the sight of the other SS guards. I tried to help as many as I could." The cool, reptilian eyes skimmed over Mulder's disapproving features. "I was not a monster, you understand. I loved my country, but I knew that I had to survive if I were to help these unfortunate people." 

Masters smiled. 

Scully leaned close to Mulder and mouthed the word "coached." Mulder nodded. 

"So the night that you attempted to save this man's life," he said, the words sticking in his throat with a coating of bile, "you witnessed something out of the ordinary." 

Again there was a whispered exchange. Schuller's voice was bland when he answered. "I saw something I could not believe. It was a light from nowhere. It took hold of the man before I had a chance to reach out my hand to help him. He was drawn backward to safety." 

"And, in your opinion, what was the source of this light?" asked Scully. 

"My opinion as a Christian is that it came from Heaven, to save the man from the sin of desecrating himself by suicide." 

Scully looked at her tightly-clenched hands, letting her fingernails dig into her palms at this perversion of her most sacred beliefs. Mulder glanced at her, then continued. 

"And after the light faded away, what did you do?" 

"I helped him to his feet and told him to get back to the barracks before he was missed," Schuller said unctuously. 

"Did you notice any objects in the area that were unusual?" 

The smug expression disappeared and was replaced by a flash of panic. Masters looked at his client. 

"I saw no unusual objects." 

"Was there a box present? About two feet square?" 

For the first time in several minutes, Schuller seemed to relax. "Mr. Mulder, this was a working camp. There were boxes everywhere." 

"Not like this." He turned to the attorney. "This is the point at which we need our witness here with an important piece of evidence." 

Masters gave a sleek smile. "Of course. Please ask him in." 

Mulder gave a superficially courteous nod to the men before him as he rose and beckoned into the hallway. 

Jacob Nowinski entered with the box in his hands. For the first time in over fifty years, he had the chance to confront the man who represented everything that had ruined his life. 

And Schuller knew. His face turned pasty white and he gasped aloud. "You. But how?" 

"I believe you know, 'mein commandant.' You know exactly how it is that I am here today to face you." 

The tension in the room, caused by the sudden mixture of blind panic and ancient enmity, flared suddenly. 

It took only a second before Masters was on his feet, standing in between Nowinski and his client. "Sir, I must ask you to take a seat or this interview will be terminated." 

"Very well." Nowinski sat down in the chair Mulder had vacated. Mulder leaned against the wall, his posture belying the intense curiosity he felt as he watched Nowinski remove the cloth covering from the box. Even the guards, who until now had been bored by the routine, peered at it. 

"Please observe that this box is without seams or lid. It is as if it were made of a single piece of wood." 

"It's cleverly made," Masters sighed, "but I don't see how it is germane to this discussion." 

"I carried this box back and forth at Auschwitz to avoid the impossibly heavy labor that would surely have lead to my death. It was taken away from me when I was taken to the so-called infirmary." 

"If you were sent to the infirmary, it was because you were ill and the doctors wanted to help you. You know this," Schuller insisted. 

Scully could hardly restrain herself. "If he was sent to the infirmary, it was to ensure that he left in worse condition than he entered." 

"The necessary precautions were taken, Miss Scully..." 

"Doctor Scully," she corrected crisply. I've read about what you did. And I know what your people did to a man named Avram Nowinski. Medical experiments." 

"Some political prisoners may have volunteered..." 

"Volunteered? To have their bodies defiled, their health ruined, their chances of having children annihilated? And you led them there! You forced this on them!" 

Coming carefully forward, Mulder put a hand on Scully's shoulder, then pulled a chair up and sat close to her. 

"And on me," Nowinski said quietly. 

Steven Masters choked, then exploded into harsh laughter. "Oh, my God," he sputtered. "I'd heard about you two from F.B.I. records--that you chase aliens and think everything's a damn conspiracy, but this...this just finishes it." 

As if in answer, Nowinski rolled up his sleeve to display his tattoo. The numbers stood out clearly, but the color had faded as if it were very, very old. Even as she shuddered, Scully looked at her partner and saw that he was clenching his jaw. 

"So you got a tattoo. That doesn't make you Avram Nowinski." 

"There's more, you know. So, so much more." 

"You don't have a shred of evidence against my client," he said, pointing a finger at the silent Nowinski. "There's not one living witness who can prove a damned thing. All you have is a couple of old records that were probably falsified. And now here you are, trying to tell me that *you're* the old man from the concentration camp! You're all crazy! This interview is over. Come on, Mr. Schuller." 

The elderly man rose without any of the dignity he had shown earlier. His eyes, narrowed to gray slits, never left the deep brown ones of his accuser. As he passed, guards at either side of him, he whispered into Nowinski's ear: "You don't know what I've endured." He then faced everyone in the room. "Let me tell you my story." 

And the room fell silent except for the sound of his voice. When he was finished, he left with his attorney and the guards at his side.   


*** 

Auschwitz Concentration Camp   
March, 1944 

Johann Schuller loved his country. 

Almost as much as he hated Jews. 

After all, they were the ones who destroyed their economy, committed miscegenation with racially pure German girls against their will, and perpetrated their heinous crimes against all God-fearing Christians by denying the Word of God. 

So he had volunteered when the Reich called him, and was serving his duty in a hellhole in Poland, surrounded by the very people whose existence was abhorrent to him. 

He wanted to kill them all. 

Some of the other young officers had balked--as much as they dared--at the duties they were expected to perform, but not Schuller. He took delight in beating the downtrodden and made certain his superiors noticed. They had, and he was a rising star in their midst. At the end of a particularly long day, he was able to make them laugh with stories of some of his sadistic actions. 

The men in his barracks feared him. He watched with satisfaction as each one was slowly worked to death. 

Except one. Avram Nowinski. The one who had been dragged away from the fence by a light so bright that Schuller still saw it whenever he shut his eyes. 

Despite the meager rations, the deplorable sanitary conditions, and the heavy physical labor, Nowinski was still relatively healthy. Slim, yes, but without the cavernous thinness of his bunkmates. And his expression had never devolved into the one of cowed terror that Schuller had come to think of as his own handiwork. 

Schuller watched Nowinski for a week, desperate to see him slacking off enough to warrant a good beating. All he saw was a man going back and forth carrying a box full of something, somewhere. 

The same box. 

Every day. 

The box that he'd tripped over that night at the perimeter fence as he ran away to vomit. 

There had to be a way to get it away from him. If he just took it outright, he'd be seen with it and would end up having to give it to one of his superiors. Whatever was in that box, he wanted it for himself. 

He was peripherally aware of research going on that would result in sterilization. What better way to separate Nowinski from his precious box than to offer him up as a test subject? The very next day he followed through on his plan. He put Nowinski's name on the roster of "patients" and left him there. The box was his. 

He stole to his room and examined the object closely. It was hollow and made an open sound when he hit it with his palm. The wood itself was something he had never seen, dark and almost grainless. And it was perfectly square. There were no joins, no seams, no nails. 

It puzzled him. He set it aside, kicked off his shoes, and took a nap. 

He awoke later with an ache in his groin. Puzzled, he got to his feet wearily and found that he had to vomit. No sooner had he leaned out his window and retched than he found himself almost too dizzy to stand. 

He hoped it wasn't influenza. 

Schuller called one of his friends over and told him he was sick. An SS nurse came to see him, bringing broth and medicine. 

Nothing helped. He was miserable, and with each passing day he deteriorated until he thought it could not get any worse. 

He was wrong. 

Jolting awake from his fevered nightmares, Schuller felt a sharp pain at the base of his spine. He bent over forward like a rag doll and stifled his scream into his pillow. 

"Shut up!" called the man who shared the adjacent wall. 

He had to vomit, but it was beyond the need to vomit. A hand was inside his abdomen, pulling, dragging. 

Cutting. 

His body shook violently. Froth ran out of his mouth as he gagged back his screams. Something tore at him, causing agony that he could never have imagined. On his right, slowly, pushing upwards, and then on his left... 

Darkness swallowed him whole. 

When he awoke the next morning, his body bathed in clammy sweat, he wondered if it had all been a dream. He scratched his abdomen lazily, then stood up and stretched his aching muscles. His hand, still scratching, reached lower and lower. 

And encountered loose, empty skin where once there had been heaviness. 

His breath hitching in short, harsh bursts, Schuller dropped to the floor. There was no mark on him, not so much as a bruise, but he had been emasculated. 

The box glowed bright red. Schuller grabbed it and flung it to the floor, then took his lamp and tried to break the wood. The box only glowed brighter. 

Across the camp, Avram Nowinski awoke to discover the horror that had been perpetrated on him. 

Johann Schuller looked from the box back to his own body and wept. 

Whatever was in that box, he'd wanted it for himself.   
*** 

Washington, D.C.   
1998   
an hour later 

"I hope you're all very pleased with yourselves." 

The sharp words were accompanied by the punctuation of a slammed door. "I'm Robert Graham, and it's my thankless job to bring an impossible case to court with nothing more than the testimony of a lunatic!" 

He threw his briefcase on the table in front of Mulder, who scarcely flinched. Scully looked up at the attorney with an air of disdain. 

Jacob Nowinski looked at his shoes. 

"I just a fascinating phone call about a very interesting request that was just granted. It seems that my learned colleague, Mr. Masters, has persuaded the court that an evidentiary hearing should be held in the morning. And since we don't have much by way of evidence--and our witness is a crackpot who thinks he's a concentration camp survivor with really good hair--it should be spectacularly short." 

Graham was a middle-aged man, well-dressed, with sandy hair and a florid face that was becoming redder by the minute. He leaned over Nowinski, hissing his words. "I put my ass on the line because I thought you were on to something. Now I just think you're ON something. Why the hell did you say anything like that to Masters? He was just waiting for you to hang yourself." 

If he wanted anger as a response, he was disappointed by what happened next. Nowinski raised red-rimmed eyes to him. Tears streamed silently down his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly. 

Scully could almost sense the years bearing down on him. 

"I waited so long...I've worked all my life to make certain that every identifiable man was brought to justice...and he was the last..." 

The wind was taken out of his sails. Graham sighed wearily. "Look, we both knew that we had evidence that was, at best, circumstantial. Maybe it's not lost. But it sure would've helped if we'd had a real, live survivor--at least one who could be believed." He nodded to Mulder and Scully. "It starts tomorrow morning at nine." He departed more quietly than he had entered. 

Mulder looked at Scully for a long time as she watched Nowinski regain his composure. "I think we need to take Mr. Nowinski home," he told her as he shifted his attention to their companion. "I think it's time that we meet Helen." 

"My 'mother,' Agent Mulder?" Nowinski asked with a trace of rancor. 

But Mulder shook his head sadly. "Your wife." 

*** 

The house in Alexandria was small but comfortable. Built-in bookshelves were filled to capacity in a living room furnished with comfortable armchairs and a sofa. Nowinski had gone into the house first, motioning for Scully and Mulder to make themselves comfortable in the living room. 

All of the photographs in the room were of Nowinski as he appeared now, young and vital, but there were three different women. The first was taken recently, given the vivid colors, and showed him with a middle-aged woman with soft brown hair and kind, lively eyes. "Mulder, look at this one," Scully said, pointing to the next shot. This young woman also had dark hair, but was dressed in postwar European style. 

"Sarah?" Mulder asked. 

"I suppose. And this...oh, my God, Mulder." Scully took the silver frame carefully from the shelf and her hands began to tremble. Battered and scuffed, the wedding photograph in sepia had Avram Nowinski holding the hand of his bride. Her hair was lighter than the others, and her face has a classical sharpness. 

"She looks like you," Mulder said. "I saw it in an archive last night, when I was researching Helen Steinberg. She had a book of photographs published, ones that were saved from the Nazi warehouses. She spent years identifying the people; it was her way of keeping them alive. A woman that passionate, that committed--she had to have known..." He took the frame from her hands and set it back down. "I don't know why, Scully, but as soon as I saw that picture, I knew he was telling the truth." 

"An epiphany, Mulder?" 

They shared a moment of soft laughter. "Something like that. Or maybe I just had the strength of your beliefs, for a change." 

"I see you found Rivka. She had red hair just like yours, so I've been told," said the new voice, and they found themselves looking at the woman in the most recent photograph. She smiled, her gentle eyes glistening. "I've heard so much about you. Jacob has told me what a help you have been to him." 

"I'm not sure that we've been much help," Scully demurred. 

Nowinski entered the room, his step slow and hesitant. He lowered his body into a chair. "You've been more help than you will ever know. This quest I've been on, to put Schuller away, has been fragile, at best." 

There was a faint smile on Mulder's face as he responded. "I have had a similar experience or two." 

"At least." Scully took the offered seat and gratefully accepted the cup of tea she was handed. "What we need now is to figure out what to do tomorrow at the hearing. I gather that Masters plans to have the written evidence dismissed because it was in your hands all these years and may have been tampered with." 

Nowinski sighed. "He was the last one I could identify. He was supposed to respond to the documents brought to him by a researcher. But then I saw that he recognized me, and I let my emotions destroy everything." 

"Not everything," Helen said in a tender voice. "There's still a way." 

Silence. 

"I can be that witness." 

"But how?" Mulder's voice rose in pitch. "No judge, no matter how open-minded, will allow himself to believe that you're a concentration camp survivor." 

"Unless you break the box," Scully supplied, her voice carefully neutral to disguise her pain. 

"But the box didn't break, even when Schuller threw it at you." 

"It wasn't his to break," was the calm reply. "It was mine, and it's served its purpose. Let it serve that purpose one last time." 

He rose and picked up the box from the hall table. It had a reddish glow to it. Mulder, fascinated, leaned forward for a closer look, as did Scully. 

"Are you sure?" Scully asked as her eyes began to fill.   


She looked at his handsome face, committing it to memory before it would vanish. "Just do it," she pleaded. "Please." 

With a single stroke of his fist, Nowinski reduced the box to a pile of glowing rubble. 

Mulder pulled an evidence bag from his jacket, donned latex gloves, and began to pick up the pieces. They disintegrated into ash, then disappeared entirely. 

"Mulder..." Scully breathed. 

Jacob Nowinski's facial features began to coarsen and sag. His thick brown hair turned white and fell out in clumps. The flesh wrinkled as his body shrank, his stooped posture becoming a pronounced hump. 

He was an old man now. 

Scully helped him into his chair, taking his pulse and looking into his clouded eyes. "You've got a thin pulse, not unusual for a man of your age. You need some sleep, Mr. Nowinski. This...strain...on your body..." 

Mulder was staring, his eyes enormous. More out of automatic reflex than anything else, he came forward and lifted the old man in his arms. Helen held on to her husband's hand as she accompanied them up the stairs. 

When Mulder returned alone a few minutes later, he found Scully staring at the photograph of the woman who resembled her so closely. Mulder slipped his arm around her shoulders. "He said that seeing you made him wonder if Rivka was telling him something from beyond the grave." 

"I thought you believed that this box came from beyond the stars, Mulder." 

"Does that matter now?" 

She let herself be touched for just a moment, then pulled away. "What matters is getting his testimony on the record before it's too late." 

*** 

They did not like being called into Skinner's office early in the morning. 

They especially did not like being told that he'd been instructed to keep them there until the hearing was over. 

Mulder sulked outright. Scully kept a professional veneer. Their spurious assignment was to sit at the conference table and sort out their paperwork on every case they had done in the last month. 

"I'm sorry about this," Skinner said for the tenth time in the past few hours, and meaning it. "It was just felt that you would do more harm than good if either of you said something about what you...experienced...last night." 

"How do they plan to explain the sudden appearance of a witness?" Mulder asked. 

"Your own research and that of Agent Scully should make that less of a problem than you'd imagine. There was no death certificate issued for Avram Nowinski, therefore it isn't too much of a leap to assume that he is still alive. And his medical records back up his claim, as do his fingerprints from his immigration record." 

"What about our claim?" Mulder inquired. "Do you believe what we described to you?" 

Skinner looked weary as he rubbed his jaw. "I've learned over the years not to dismiss what you tell me outright. But this is puzzling." He glanced over at Scully. "You've been very quiet about this matter, Agent Scully. What do you believe that you witnessed?" 

Her eyes were sorrowful but clear. "Justice, Sir." 

There was no possible reply. 

The phone trilled on his desk. "Skinner," he barked. "Yes. Put him through." He looked over at the others. "It's Robert Graham." 

Scully leapt to her feet with more animation than she had displayed the entire morning, Mulder close behind her. They watched Skinner's reactions as he listened to Graham's words. 

"Yes. I'll tell them. Thank you." He replaced the receiver and folded his hands on the desk. "Mr. Nowinski delivered his testimony as to the veracity of the reports, and they were placed into evidence. The proof is now considered to be incontrovertible." 

"There's more," Mulder whispered. 

"Yes." He swallowed hard, wanting to delay the inevitable, wanting to give them one last moment of contentment in a job completed. "I'm afraid that, immediately following the hearing, Mr. Nowinski collapsed and died of a massive heart attack." 

Scully's hand flew over her mouth. Mulder turned away, blinking quickly. 

"There was nothing anyone could do. It was over in a matter of seconds." He picked up his pen and took it apart slowly, an old habit he'd formed from not wanting to meet someone's eye. "The funeral will be tomorrow afternoon, in the cemetary adjoining the old synagogue near their home." 

He waited until his agents regained their composure. He could almost feel Mulder gaining strength from Scully's presence, a sensation he met with awe and a little envy. 

"And I would appreciate it if the two of you would represent the Bureau at the funeral tomorrow. That will be all." 

His heart was heavy as he watched them leave. 

*** 

The funeral was sparsely attended. The men and women from the Holocaust Museum came to pay their respects to the man whose testimony would bring a Nazi to justice, at the cost of his own life. Helen Steinberg Nowinski was there, standing straight and solemn as the rabbi intoned the Kaddish. 

Scully asked in a whisper, "How are they going to explain Jacob's disappearance?" 

"The 'official word' is that, following his grandfather's death, Jacob is taking an extended leave of absence, traveling to Israel. From there he'll tender his resignation." 

She fell back into her silent meditation. 

When it was over and the mourners washed their hands before leaving, Scully and Mulder approached the widow. 

Scully spoke first. "I wish there were words for me to express how very, very sorry I am about what happened." 

Helen smiled and took both of her hands. "Don't be sorry, please. He went to rest having achieved his heart's desire." 

"That can't be said for very many men," was Mulder's respectful comment. He put his hand on Helen's arm. "Are you going to be all right?" 

"I think so. Our circle of friends was small, as we had to move when I became to old to be a believable wife for such a young man. Everyone here thinks I was his mother." She smiled. "He spoke very highly of you. He thought of you both as potential friends, people who were exceptional enough to believe in him." 

Mulder's shoulders stiffened. 

"And, Agent Scully, he found peace about what happened to Rivka; he said you were what she would have become if she had lived." 

Scully pulled Helen into an embrace and blinked back her tears as she watched Mulder approach the open gravesite alone. She took her leave of Helen and went to her partner's side. 

"'Justice, justice shall you pursue,'" he quoted, his voice rough with grief. 

Scully slipped her hand into his. "I can't help thinking that he would have wanted to trade his life for justice, and that this was the way it was meant to happen." 

"But according to whom?" 

They looked to one another for comfort as a chilling rain began to fall. 

*** 

END 

Feedback is lovingly answered at marguerite@swbell.net.   
Return to case files.   
  
  
  



End file.
